Must include 12 Original Poems - 5 original poems based on a theme
.
Requirements:
Parody - Change a poem by another author and change it
Name Poem -
Acrostic -
Spoon River Style - Epitaph Character from To Kill a Mockingbird, The Odyssey, or Romeo and Juliet
Epitaph - is text honoring the dead, most commonly inscribed on a tombstone or plaque.
On Being a Teenager -minimum 12 lines
About the World -
Prejudice -minumum 12 lines
Must have a cover
Table of Contents - Poems listed and page number
First 5 poems on a given theme
Page 788
"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
This poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, talks of the power and beauty of the eagle.
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; Personification and a metaphor
He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Simile
--Alfred, Lord Tennyson
254
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul— Metaphor
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Emily Dickinson
Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun? Simile Or fester like a sore-- Simile
And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Simile
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Simile
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Simile
Or does it explode?
Langston Hugh
Dreams
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird - Metaphor
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go - Metaphor
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Bending, I bow my head
And lay my hand upon
Her hair, combing, and think
How women do this for
Each other. My daughter’s hair
Curls against the comb,
Wet and fragrant—orange
Parings. Her face, downcast,
Is quiet for one so young.
I take her place. Beneath
My mother’s hands I feel
The braids drawn up tight
As a piano wire and singing,
Vinegar-rinsed. Sitting
Before the oven I hear
The orange coils tick
The early hour before school.
She combed her grandmother
Mathilda’s hair using
A comb made out of bone.
Mathilda rocked her oak-wood
Chair, her face downcast,
Intent on tearing rags
In strips to braid a cotton
Rug from bits of orange
And brown. A simple act,
Preparing hair. Something
Women do for each other,
Plaiting the generations. Women 5/3/07 Alice Walker
They were women then
My mama’s generation
Husky of voice—stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pool singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone. Note: this work is public domain since it was composed prior to 1923 and the author died over 70 years ago.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There_Will_Come_Soft_Rains"
Siren Song
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Poetry Portfolio Due May 7
Must include 12 Original Poems - 5 original poems based on a theme
.Requirements:
Parody - Change a poem by another author and change it
Name Poem -
Acrostic -
Spoon River Style - Epitaph Character from To Kill a Mockingbird, The Odyssey, or Romeo and Juliet
Epitaph - is text honoring the dead, most commonly inscribed on a tombstone or plaque.
On Being a Teenager -minimum 12 lines
About the World -
Prejudice -minumum 12 lines
Must have a cover
Table of Contents - Poems listed and page number
First 5 poems on a given theme
Page 788
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth
page 794
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Emily Dickeson
Langston Hughes
Similie , Metaphor and Personification
This poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, talks of the power and beauty of the eagle.
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; Personification and a metaphor
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls. Simile
--Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul— Metaphor
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Emily Dickinson
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun? Simile
Or fester like a sore-- Simile
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat? Simile
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet? Simile
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Simile
Or does it explode?
Langston Hugh
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird - Metaphor
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go - Metaphor
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Langston Hughes
4/24/07
Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven
http://www.teachersfirst.com/share/raven/st1.html
Gladys Cardiff
Bending, I bow my head
And lay my hand upon
Her hair, combing, and think
How women do this for
Each other. My daughter’s hair
Curls against the comb,
Wet and fragrant—orange
Parings. Her face, downcast,
Is quiet for one so young.
I take her place. Beneath
My mother’s hands I feel
The braids drawn up tight
As a piano wire and singing,
Vinegar-rinsed. Sitting
Before the oven I hear
The orange coils tick
The early hour before school.
She combed her grandmother
Mathilda’s hair using
A comb made out of bone.
Mathilda rocked her oak-wood
Chair, her face downcast,
Intent on tearing rags
In strips to braid a cotton
Rug from bits of orange
And brown. A simple act,
Preparing hair. Something
Women do for each other,
Plaiting the generations.
Women 5/3/07
Alice Walker
They were women then
My mama’s generation
Husky of voice—stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pool singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Note: this work is public domain since it was composed prior to 1923 and the author died over 70 years ago.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There_Will_Come_Soft_Rains"
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Margaret Atwood